Pieces of Her Soul

by Serena Lindahl

  Finally, Seb slowed his pacing. "Well, the answer is simple, I guess. A person only has one Soul Match. She'll end up with who she's meant to end up with. If it's supposed to be you, brother, it's not supposed to be me." The words were easier to say than do, though, and saying them was no small feat.

  Reed kicked at the dirt with a scuffed boot. "The situation may not be so straight-forward. Some people marry for other reasons. They don't wait for their Soul Match; they don't expect to hear the Soul Tenders direct the King to send a missive or invite them both to a matching gala. What if one of them," he gestured towards the alleyway the Military and Shadow men had disappeared into. "What if one of them woos her before either of us? They're interested in her too. I could feel it."

  Seb didn't deny his brother's proclamation. He had chalked the same assumption up to his own insecurity. Hearing Reed say it out loud made his skin crawl.

  "You believe in all this Fates business, brother, not me. If you are her Soul Match, at least I'll get to see her once in a while. I'll be like a brother to her," Seb's face twisted like he'd bitten into a wormy apple. Reed laughed at him, nearly doubling over in his mirth. Seb kicked his brother's foot. "Hey, don't laugh. What if she falls for me? Then she'd be your sister." Seb's jab was vindicated when Reed immediately sobered.

  "Right. That wouldn't be good at all." Reed paused, thinking. "We need to have patience. First, let's see where she tests. The House she tests into will lend that man an advantage."

  "Is it tempting Fate to hope that she will be accepted into Merchant House, giving none of us an advantage?" Seb asked with a crooked smile. Reed mimicked his smile and Seb took a deep breath. Not even a woman as amazing as Kiarra could come between them. He was more than pleased by the revelation. He couldn't handle losing Reed after losing his parents, and to a smaller extent, Rowan. If one of them actually got the girl, they'd have to face reality and come to terms with Fate's fickle sense of humor.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Clay

  Clay nearly threw his ledger across the room in a fit of frustration, an action very uncharacteristic of his nature. He took a deep breath, placating himself with the promise of throwing a few punches in the gym later to work out his irritations. Ever since he'd met the beautiful Kiarra, he'd thought of little else. A physical need pulled him across the city. But Gregory had been on his case every single day, demanding more and more of him. He rarely cursed his bad legs, but at the moment, he did. If he were whole, he could sprint across the city and see her without Gregory knowing he was gone.

  It was rest day and he'd done nothing but calculate figures for the pompous Head of his House. Once again, he almost regretted his decision to move to Treleaven. When the grand House here had accepted him into the ranks because of his exemplary test scores, he'd been ecstatic. He'd hoped to be seen for his brilliance and not his infirmity. Instead, the Head hated him for some unknown reason, and his disregard trickled down the ranks because no one wanted to anger Master Gregory. Clay was lonely. He'd had friends in Sheldrake Port, along with his mother. Although he could only tolerate short amounts of time with her before her coddling drove him crazy, he'd had an ally.

  “How are those calculations going, trainee?" the garbled voice spoke behind him and Clay grit his teeth together. He had hoped to at least work in private today, thinking everyone would be occupied with whatever fun they had on rest day. His roommate took the name of the day literally, sleeping nearly every hour away. While that activity was too passive for Clay, he would prefer anything to being badgered by the Head of the House.

  "Well, Master Gregory," Clay replied. The Head always called him trainee in private, like he were fourth tier and not worthy of the title of Master. While he hadn't cared if the students called him Master, Clay resented that his boss was so spiteful. Clay refused to stoop to his petty level; he was always respectful out loud. "I should complete my assignment within the hour." He held his breath as he delivered the news. He'd finished the project in half the time the Head assumed, but he wouldn't receive the acclamation any other man would receive.

  "If you are finished so quickly, your work is likely riddled with mistakes. Double check the figures."

  Clay resisted the urge to roll his eyes to the sky in a bid for divine intervention. "I am double checking now, Master."

  The Head sniffed, his squinty eyes studying the books in front of Clay. The work held no mistakes. He was only double-checking because he knew it would be asked of him. "Then, my steward will deliver your next task."

  "Master Gregory," Clay began. He refused to grovel, but his patience wasn't unlimited. He would remind his boss that he was second tier and at least deserved the right to honor rest day. His insubordination would end badly, but he refused to continue this farce any longer. A breathless courier chose that moment to run into the room, however, forestalling his words. Clay had the satisfaction of seeing Master Gregory jump at the unexpected intrusion, though the action caused the folds of his chin and his belly to jiggle grotesquely.

  "Masters Gregory and Jackson," the courier greeted them breathlessly, bowing at the waist. His gray tunic was cleanly pressed, the only sign of his run the red tinge to his cheeks. Upon the shoulder of his gray Information Exchange tunic was the Royal crest of arms. A palace courier. The distinction made his interruption more significant. Gregory stifled whatever he was going to say and nodded instead. He pushed his chest out. That he received missives directly from the palace made him more important in his own mind, and he would use any small excuse to flaunt his superior standing.

  Clay looked back to his books, losing interest, but the courier stopped before him. He glanced up in surprise. The young man, rail thin with hair the color of a raven's wing, bowed again. He handed Clay a sealed piece of parchment while Gregory spluttered behind him.

  "Master Jackson, this one is for you." He passed the slip of paper, still warm, into Clay's hands and gave a similar one to Master Gregory with another bow. Then, he ran from the room, apparently not awaiting a reply.

  Master Gregory tore into his paper. His face turned pink then darkened slowly as he read further until he resembled a beet. Clay was gravely concerned the rotund man might have a heart attack while he watched in mortified fascination.

  "You're dismissed," Gregory bit between gritted teeth, turned on his heel and left the room. Clay imagined he wanted to stomp to the exit, but his body wasn’t capable.

  Clay's eyes widened as his roughened fingers caressed the parchment. He had a burning desire to read the missive, but he also wanted to escape the counting house before Gregory changed his mind. He slipped the parchment into his pocket and hastily snatched up his crutches. His ever present backpack, which carried everything he might need for a day so he didn't have to make extra trips for water, food, or books, went onto his back.

  Flipping the ledger closed with an overwhelming sense of satisfaction, he escaped the stifling building. The towering marble edifice, usually bustling during the week, hollowly echoed the tap of his sticks. He traveled towards the Quarter of shops that occupied the space between Merchant and Scholar Housing. Kiarra lived on the other side; she had mentioned it when they passed the other day, but he hoped she might visit the market on her day off. Try as he might, he couldn't think of an excuse to visit her at home.

  The shops, in contrast to the counting house, bustled with activity. He dodged unseeing eyes, careful to not accidentally trip anyone with his crutches. Crowds made navigation a nuisance but he desired regular companionship after being shut up with tight lipped, avarice driven Merchants for the better part of the week.

  He found his favorite place, a wooden table beneath an apple tree that was just beginning to bloom. The buds lent their heady odor to the area but didn't mask the stink of many bodies crowded together, many foods being cooked, or the spicy scent of mead.

  Once safely on the bench, his back propped against the mature trunk of the tree, he breathed a sigh of relief. The breathing exercises assisted him wit
h relaxation when he couldn't physically work off his frustrations. He had modified many activities so he could engage in them sitting down or propped up. He preferred to keep his upper body as fit as possible despite his bum legs. The daily work with the crutches helped, but he required more.

  Paper crinkled in his pocket. Ensuring no one could read over his shoulder, he extracted the missive with equal parts dread and anticipation. He broke the seal with a long fingernail, examining the entire parchment for signs of tampering. One of the men at the docks taught him how to remove seals and remake them or carefully slit a message so the contents were legible without affecting the seal. Clay had never employed such tactics himself, but he always inspected the messages he received. Assuring himself the missive was genuine, he began to read.

  Master Clay Jackson,

  It is with great pleasure that the Royal Palace hereby informs you that you are being considered as an apprentice to the Merchant Advisor of the Kingdom. You are to present yourself tomorrow, the 18th day of the second season, at the 19th hour, where you will meet the other Advisor apprentices. If all goes well, your current duties within the Merchant House of Treleaven City will discontinue, and you will answer directly to the Advisor and the rulers of the Kingdom of Megreria. You and the other apprentices will be expected to house yourselves within the palace. Keep this message in confidence.

  Sincerely, King Demetrius Caden

  Undersigned by Merchant Advisor Joshua Orisson

  Clay reread the message three times, his brow furrowing further each time. Tucking a strand of golden brown hair that had escaped its braid behind his ear, he finally lifted his eyes. The bustle of the marketplace continued but he was lost in thoughts. The message should have elated him but he had a hard time summoning any happiness under the weight of unanswered questions.

  Each ruler chose its Advisors personally and he'd never met the Crown Prince. In fact, nowhere within the message was the Crown Prince even mentioned. He had been taught that Advisors didn't apprentice. They matured in their Houses and were picked once they reached first tier. He'd never heard of two sets of Advisors living in the palace at one time.

  The many questions hinted to the summons being a hoax, but Gregory had been severely irritated by his message. If it were true, he would soon be above Gregory's position in the hierarchy of the city. Certainly, that would anger the Head Merchant more than anything else.

  He tapped the paper on his knee absently, staring off unseeing into the profusion of color in the marketplace. Perhaps to make up for their drab, appointed uniforms, the tents of the temporary stalls and the awnings of the more permanent buildings of the marketplace blossomed in every color of the rainbow.

  Performers, those who hadn't tested into any House but had a useful talent for showmanship, stood on the corners singing, playing instruments, or telling stories. Passersby would place money in their upturned hats. They were provided room and board in the Commoner's section, courtesy of the crown, but their earnings would go towards other needs. The King believed in the power of creativity and artistry to keep the populace happy, even though a Performer's life was complicated compared to the lives of the House patrons.

  If the message hadn't explicitly said to keep the information secret, he might have hopped up and ran to tell someone, or walked as the case may be. Unfortunately, he didn't have any friends in the City yet. He'd only been here a couple months and trapped within the counting houses the majority of the duration. Merchants did not make friends easily. They looked out for themselves and were deeply suspicious of others. He hoped the other apprentices would be friendly towards him.

  A thought occurred to him as he saw a flash of red in the crowd that reminded him of the copper strands in Kiarra's hair. If he lived in the palace, he wouldn't see her again, or often. Advisors only joined the general population a couple times during their tenure, and most citizens did not travel beyond the palace gates. Advisors didn't marry unless they were decreed a Soul Match. Anyone not their true mate was considered a liability as they were trusted with highly sensitive information. A spouse with ulterior motives had the potential to cause irreparable damage with the secure data. Supposedly, true mates were unable to betray their matches.

  In the smallest villages of Megreria, the Soul Tenders were not the sequestered gods they were here. They were usually the village crazies, living on their own as their constant visions made them difficult to be around. They were revered by the community and often employed a caretaker. Villagers listened when that person, always a man for some reason, proclaimed a true match.

  In larger cities, like Port Town, the Soul Tenders were housed in a temple and had a medium that sent information between the prophets and the citizens. In every case, they were glorified matchmakers. Clay admitted they had some sort of supernatural ability but he didn't proclaim to understand how it worked.

  The Soul Tenders would influence his life if he became an Advisor, however. He would only see Kiarra if she were his Soul Match. He doubted she was, not imagining he would be so blessed, but the pull towards her seemed indefinable, almost magical. She possessed a loving heart and an honest nature. He had been attracted to both, in addition to her beauty. Her ability to look beyond his deformity and see the man underneath was a rare and welcome trait, but he barely knew her. Already, he couldn’t imagine his life without her, though.

  As if his thoughts conjured her from thin air, a soft voice approached him. He glanced up, surprised to see the vision of his musings standing mere feet away. Her beautiful hair brushed a branch dripping with bright green buds. She was dressed in a simple brown tunic and breeches, seemingly unconcerned with propriety or rules. She did have her student crest pinned to her shoulder, however, separating her from the Commoners. Though he had admired her form in skirts, he loved the way the fabric clung to her curvy shape. If he ever had the chance to see that beautiful body naked, he would die a happy man.

  "Master Jackson." She executed a shallow curtsey.

  He smiled, his pleasure at seeing her shining from his face. "I believe we have progressed past the formalities, Kiarra. Please, call me Clay."

  "Clay." she answered. He loved the sound of his name on her lips. He gestured to the bench beside him and she sat, setting a bag of purchases at her feet. The frustration and pressure of the last few days slid from him the moment he breathed in her scent. She smelled of lavender and apple blossoms, and he leaned almost imperceptibly toward her. He had missed her, but he hadn't realized how much until she appeared before him like the mirages the kingdom of Mishok claimed appeared in their desserts.

  "How are you this rest day?" she asked nervously. She played with her tufted braid and Clay wished she would release the full majesty of her hair again, as she had that day. She had unbraided it and brushed her fingers through her tresses as if she hadn't a clue how she affected him. At the moment, he hadn't been sure, but now he was certain the gesture had been innocent and therefore more endearing. If she were his, he would beg her to never bind her hair. The world needed more beauty.

  "Well, now that you've arrived, I'm remarkably better," he answered.

  "You flatter me," she blinked dark eyelashes, also not an action born of artifice. Her gaze flicked to the paper he still held. "You've had a missive from the palace?" Her eyes widened, their beautiful sea depths drawing him in. He slipped the paper guiltily in his pocket, trying to manufacture a plausible excuse. He found he couldn't lie to her, though, so he only nodded. She looked away, not pushing him further.

  "I apologize for dismissing you so quickly the other day when Master Gregory arrived," Clay began awkwardly. He wanted her to look at him again. She did, turning her beautiful face towards him. A shaft of sunlight peeked through the branches, picking out every different colored strand atop her head. He couldn't choose a favorite among the sheen of copper, the depth of mahogany, or the shimmer of gold.

  "That's quite all right. I've no wish to be in that horrible man's presence." She scrunched up her pe
rt nose. "I am sorry you have to endure his attention every day. That must be horrible."

  "It is," Clay agreed with a small chuckle. He didn't add that he wouldn't have to endure the horror much longer because Gregory's absence also meant Kiarra's. He cursed his inability to have a proper conversation with her. Something about her beauty tied his tongue into knots. He'd given her the wrong impression the first time they'd touched, and he feared he was doing the same thing now as he floundered for something to say.

  A movement seemed to catch her attention. She moved her head quickly and Clay peered in the same direction. He saw only people among the stalls, nothing out of the ordinary. She leaned closer to him, still looking the other way. Her breath skated across his skin and he inhaled, memorizing her scent and nearness.

  "Do you see that man over there, in the shadows?" she whispered.

  Clay forced his attention from the motion of her pink lips, the nearness of her, to look again where she indicated. His keen vision needed several moments to delineate the vague shape of a man leaning against the brick wall of a tanner's building. The afternoon light fell over him in such a way that he appeared to be born of the darkness. His form was nondescript, shades of brown and gray. Clay noted the color of the man's tunic and his eyes widened.

  "The Shadow?"

  Kiarra smiled happily, again distracting his attention from the sight of the Information patron. "You see him too?" Her voice was pleased. Clay looked back at the shadows again, but the form had disappeared.

  "I did," Clay said in confusion, "or at least I thought I did."

  "Oh, he's gone now. I'm just glad you saw him for that second. He always seems to be hanging about wherever I am."